Love In A Hopeless Place
by Uesue
Summary: To Ivan, Siberia is a hopeless place. But in the end, this is where he finds love... RoChu, AU
1. Prologue

To Ivan, Siberia is a hopeless place. But in the end, this is where he finds love. RoChu AU

Author's Note: Title is of course inspired by Rihannas wonderful song =)  
>Main pairing is RoChu, other pairings may be mentioned though.<p>

Hetalia wasn't my idea...

If you spot any errors, please let me know, I will correct them. Please review, I like reviews!^^

**Love In A Hopeless Place - Prologue**

Once, when I was just hanging around in the internet, some guy asked me where I was from. I didn't answer. I went offline instead.

That night, I woke up to the buzzing of my thoughts, which desperately tried to find an answer to that question. It's not that I didn't know where I'm from, of course I know, I've never really left this place anyways and I am not exactly from an immigrant family either.

It's just that this random stranger wouldn't have understood. Сибирь – saying this word is easy, of course. But fully comprehending its meaning is hard. In every way. There's no way of learning the meaning of Сибирь but the hard one.

Luckily, I've always been a quick learner. But it was not until that night, or maybe that morning, when the first rays of dirty sunlight were beaming through my bedroom window, that I tried to put my knowledge into words.

So let me tell you something about Siberia, and let me try to make it short.

It eats you up. It annihilates whatever it is that makes people have dreams for their future. All the dreamers I ever met turned into alcoholics. Or depressive, that is. That is the punishment this landmass has in store for everybody disobeying its rules.

Also, and you may have heard about that one, Siberia is a cold place most of the time. Of course you know what "cold" means. It refers to a low temperature or to emotionless behavior. But actually those four letters are hardly sufficient to describe the cold of this territory I live in. Here, the cold has the force to turn the air gray, it makes the tears freeze on your face seconds after you cried them, it's that kind of iciness that makes you afraid of leaving your house in the morning, because you are not sure whether you will make it back in the evening with all of your toes and fingers still on.

The same goes for the people. Hating each other quietly, having lost their hopes to get out of here at a very young age, having no choice but to spend the rest of their lives in cities that were actually intended to be penal camps, they have become as eternally frozen as the ground they live on. The warmer their short summers of happiness are, the colder the inevitable winters that follow after them. That's why most Siberians have given up on love, hope or joy.

And on that morning, while getting up and ready for work I came to the conclusion that I definitely was one of those people.

Doing my best to intimidate everyone around me, gladly dealing with their hatred, perpetually frozen on the inside - I was the most perfect inhabitant Siberia had ever had. This landmass had become a part of me and I didn't bother to question that.

Such was my state of mind when I first met Yao.


	2. Chapter 1

Author's note I: A big thank you to everyone who reviewed!

**Chapter 1**

_October_

It was October when I first met Yao, and the outside temperature was rapidly heading towards 0 °C.

I was on my way back home from the office, where I had just successfully made two of my subordinates cry. It's not that I had aimed at doing so. It's just that I didn't care enough to try and be nice with them. They were simply too weak and I don't see a point in sparing weak people. Nobody had ever thought of sparing me, after all.

I went a different way than usually, as there had obviously been an accident on my normal route. I didn't feel like seeing crashed cars, dead people and inwardly dead people staring at them, so I used a small side street instead.

I had to eye my surroundings carefully in order not to get lost. Concrete buildings have a nasty tendency to look the same everywhere and so do muddy streets, especially if you are not very familiar with the area you are in. I passed a few run-down shops, a few old women trying to sell vegetables or little ikons, but it was not until I came to a neon sign that read "ЛаоЛонг - Китайская кухня" _Lao Long - __Chinese Cuisine_ that I noticed I way hungry.

I had not eaten much on that day as the canteen staff had outdid themselves once again in turning whatever their raw materials might have been into something … awful. And by awful I mean that the guy next to me was sick on his plate.

Having nothing better to do anyways I decided that I might as well have a look at that restaurant and eat something there. From the outside it didn't seem so bad. Like a moth I was allured by the light coming from it and soon found myself leaving the darkening street and heading inside.

The restaurant was not very big, but it was not small either. I was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of decoration it was loaded with. Colorful posters, kitschy statues and glittering festoons were everywhere and tried their best to cover the impression of shabbiness places like this tend to make. Crappy pop music was playing in the background and everything was dimly lit by some Chinese Lanterns with various symbols on them. I could see a few people already sitting at the tables and eating. Some of them eyed me suspiciously at first but when I demonstratively gazed back, they were quick to look away again. I seem to be talented at making others do so.

The smell of food and cigarette smoke clung to the air and I heard loud clatter when I made my way to the counter. This sound emanated from behind it where a man had turned his back to me and was hectically working at a number of different woks.

As there was no waiter in sight I came to the conclusion that this chef probably was the one to ask for a menu. But when I finally sat down at the counter and took a closer look at him I just couldn't bring myself to ask.

He seemed totally absorbed in what he was doing. Every single one of his movements was sheer perfection. From my point of view I could only see his backside, but I was able to observe the way his muscles were restlessly working beneath that white shirt of his. Sometimes he would reach for some chopped vegetables beside him and carefully admix them, sometimes he would add spices or salt with incredibly peppy movements. He was constantly making a few steps to the left, to the right, back and forth and it was then when the lower half of his body displayed its ability to move in as much as gracious a manner as the upper one.

I was fascinated by his verve. His long, dark brown hair was held back in a loose ponytail and I watched as it moved along when the man turned his head in one or the other direction. Disturbing him would have been a sacrilege, so I kept quiet.

I don't know how long I sat there like this. It could have been minutes, hours, or just split seconds. I must have been staring though, because eventually the chef turned as if he had felt my eyes on him.

"Can I help you?" he asked in an unagitated and polite manner.

Something inside me twitched. Unreadable Asian eyes were looking at me, in no way giving away any sign of shock or nervousness. "Добрый вечер! _Good evening!_" I answered and smiled. "I was looking for some kind of menu."

"Oh, yes. Of course." In another of his swift movements he reached out for a staple of paper sheets on the shelf next to him and gave me one of them. "I'm sorry, my brother is out at the moment, he usually handles those things. Just tell me when you have decided."

With that he was off in order to deliver full plates to one of the tables and I was left thinking and trying my best not to follow him with my eye.

He hadn't been afraid of me in the least. In spite of me staring. It may sound trivial to most people, but when you are used to everybody cringing at your mere sight, moments like this are nice once in a while. And this guy had been _handsome_. Seeing the faces of people you only know the back of usually is like getting to know the true personality of people you only knew superficially – 95% of times you'll be disappointed. But not with him, obviously.

Still, I concentrated on the menu and picked a random number from it. I've never been picky with food, really. Obviously there are some limits to that (the canteen!), but in the end I'm fine with just about anything. Back when I was little, my mother used to put sawdust in our borsht. Or grass in our spinach. I'm not sure what other things she did, I do not even want to know. However, that was before I started supplementing our family income with the pocket money of every single other child in my class. Or before my sisters and I figured out how to make anything from the grocery shop next door disappear in our pockets without anyone seeing it.

But I'm afraid I'm getting sidetracked here. I didn't think that this fascinating chef could prepare anything inedible anyways, so musing over horrid food wasn't of any use whatsoever. I'm just trying to point out what kind of food I was used to.

"I'll take R8." I said when he returned.

"Good choice." He answered and nodded to me approvingly, still no emotion visible in his eyes.

He opened up a fridge in the corner, took out some meat and started chopping it. With that I once again got lost in my thoughts, which actually were no thoughts at all, just me trying to fill up every corner of my brain with images of him. Memories are like a fireplace when everything around you starts to freeze. And I told you how it is with frost in Siberia. So you can never have enough to remember.

However I was interrupted by a stern looking young man dressed in a somewhat traditional Chinese outfit entering the room through a backdoor. "Can I help you?" he addressed me with a disinterested look in his face.

"Thank you, but I already ordered something." I smiled at him and without saying another word he was off to clear some tables.

Somehow this man's appearance had disturbed me, but before I could think any further I heard the chef address me: "That was my brother." He said.

"Ah, nice." I couldn't think of anything more to say, really. I would have loved to, but somehow even I know that you just don't randomly start conversations with strangers about their siblings. And even more so when they are at work.

To my amazement and pleasure, he did continue talking to me when my food was ready. No new customer had showed up after me, so he was able to take the time to look at me when he put a full plate of whatever R8 actually was in front of me.

"Here you are." he stated.

"Thank you."

"Don't you want to take off your coat and your scarf? It's so warm in here. There's a coat rack over there, so…"

"No, I'm fine." I answered, a little too quickly. It really was warm in the restaurant, but I always felt incredibly exposed without my scarf. However, a worried look in his eyes made me put off my coat nonetheless, so that he wouldn't have to be afraid of me hiding a weapon under it any longer. Most of the time I would do my best to keep up the image of someone ready to shoot at his environment, but somehow I didn't want this cook to fear me.

When I finally started eating I was… amazed, to say the least. This was definitely the best thing I had eaten in the last few weeks. Or months. Or years. Whatever. So I ate. And ate. It was as if I was finally able to satisfy a hunger I had carried around for a very long time. In retrospect I guess that this just was due to the fact that for the last years, I had never bothered to get myself any _tasty_ food. All I had ever done was to carry out ingestion. And it was not until that evening at the restaurant that I noticed what difference that made. When I was done, I asked the chef for another R8 and after that I asked for a third one. With the meals, I also had tons of rice, a few spring rolls and liters of soda. When he complied with my orders a somewhat knowing smile found its way to his face and in the short time spans between my meals, when I had the opportunity to watch him cook again, I felt as if I had known him for years. His movements had become familiar to me while still appearing somewhat mysterious.

When I was halfway through with my third course and I was finally starting to feel some kind of satiation settling onto me, I took a look around the place. I had no idea how long I had been busy shoveling that wonderful stuff into me, but obviously it had been long enough for the rest of the customers to finish and leave. The strange waiter had disappeared once more and had left me alone with the cook.

Said man was currently busy cleaning his kitchen utensils and putting vegetables he had not used back into the fridge. He noticed my gaze and smiled back at me.

"Did you like it?" he asked, actually allowing his eyes to reinforce his facial expression for the first time. And it was a friendly expression indeed.

"Very much." I answered. "How come this place is so empty, in spite of serving such excellent food?"

"Oh, that's because we closed half an hour ago." He mused, the smile still not leaving his eyes, his hands still working in his kitchen, as if he was just making a remark about the weather.

I, on the other hand, was somewhat torn between the feeling of embarrassment and the feeling of pride of having been allowed to stay here for so long. Somehow this felt like a privilege. However, as I quickly reminded myself, he just could have been too afraid to ask me to leave. It wouldn't have been the first time.

"Really? I'm so sorry, I did not exactly check your opening hours. You could just have told me!" I tried to apologize.

"No, it's okay. Take your time. It's nice to cook for people who appreciate the food as much as you do. Most of our customers don't care." With that, he threw some peelings into the bin with an especially vigorous movement. "On weekdays it's worst. That's why we decided to close the restaurant at 9 on weekdays."

For the first time in the course of the evening I looked at my watch. It was 9:42 pm. I had been here for almost three hours.

I nodded. "I understand."

I resumed eating and he went to sweep the floor. We both seemed to be done at the same time because he reappeared behind the counter just when I was about to pull out my purse. I sincerely hoped that I had enough cash with me to pay for my excesses of the evening. Luckily that was the case and I was even able to tip him.

He took the money, I went to fetch my coat and the silence between us was just about to get incredibly loud when I finally dared to ask: "So, what's your name."

"My name is Wang Yao." He answered, just as if he had expected exactly this question. "Call me Yao."

"I'm Ivan, it was a pleasure to meet you." I said and we actually shook hands and smiled at each other.

"I hope to see you again soon!" he said when I was about to leave, and even though I could not really tell whether he had said that out of mere politeness or not, I happily responded: "Yes, until next time!"

And there were going to be many next times.

Author's note II:

Yao's brother is Hong Kong, as you might have guessed. He doesn't have an official human name yet, so I'll probably just call him Hong later on. I looked up the Chinese meanings of this word and they somehow seem to fit… If you know better, share your knowledge with me!^^ (Same goes for grammar/spelling mistakes...)

Edit: I give up my attempt to give Ivan a patronymic... From now, he's just Ivan Braginsky...

Reviews are still appreaciated very much! They make me so happy!


	3. Chapter 2

To Ivan, Siberia is a hopeless place. But in the end, this is where he finds love. RoChu AU

Author's note I: I don't know whether the change of the rating was necessary... Nothing too explicit here, but the f-word was used in its actual context *le gasp*. Again: Thank you so much for the reviews and favs!

**Chapter 2**

_November_

It was 3:24 when I woke up and I immediately knew that I would not fall asleep again.

Damnit. I had _dreamt _of him.

Dreamt of his flawless white skin, covering the muscles his hard work had toned so well. Dreamt of his long glossy hair and how I was running my fingers through it. Dreamt of his perfectly symmetric cheekbones, his slightly curved lips and how I met them with mine. How I caressed every square centimeter of skin I could reach. But whatever I touched, it started rotting beneath me. The lips fell apart and maggots came crawling out from where his mouth and nose had been.

This was not good. Not in the least.

I got out of my bed and noticed that my shirt and even my pillow were wet with sweat.

Cursing, I made my way to the bathroom where I first took a cold shower and afterwards spent about half an hour just standing in front of the mirror and staring at my pale reflection. The fluorescent tube above me shone through my almost purple irises, giving them a ghostly appearance. Icy water was running through my hair and across my ashen skin.

I had not shaved yet, and when my stubble made me scratch my face my fingernails left an ugly red trail. I watched it fade away again and thought that maybe,_ maybe_ I might have gained some weight in the last weeks.

Which seemed very likely, considering the sheer amount of food I had eaten in that time.

I had been at the Lao Long almost every day. First, I just continued eating R8 but soon Yao had started suggesting different meals for me. Sometimes, he would ask me to tell him about my day and he would select a meal that was just going to be what I needed at that moment. He would ask me many questions. "How was your day?", "How was work?", "Do you have a family?" and so on… He seemed so happy to ask that I was not quite sure whether he just liked to ask questions in general or whether he was actually interested in my answers.

Not that I cared.

I spend my evenings just sitting at that counter and talking to him, while he was cooking like a manic. Somehow he still managed to talk and listen to me while performing his job. Performing being the right word in this context, because for me, it was an amazing show to witness every single time. I never got tired of watching him, his way of handling all the woks and graciously throwing in exotic ingredients. By now, his brother (whose name was Hong, as Yao told me) would ignore me completely. Apparently they had two more brothers, but they didn't work in the restaurant. Yao didn't seem to like to talk about them, so I didn't pressure him. Instead he told me stories about the strange customers he sometimes had, or the live in Chinatown, or whatever other current topics we came across. Oh, how I loved those conversations.

But then it had to happen. Soon I found myself not just looking at his back muscles, but at those of his ass as well. My eyes did not just follow the soy sauce that had dripped on his fingers but they also followed the occasional sweat drops on his neck and somehow I was sure that those would be able to satisfy a certain appetite of mine way more than any sauce the Chinese cuisine could offer. I loved the food he made and I ate tons of it, but I couldn't help thinking that I'd much rather eat it from his naked body.

The light flickered for a second and the image of Yao's bare skin vanished to make room for my pale face once again.

I hated that face. I hated myself. I hated myself for having thoughts like that. I seriously was just about to make friends with someone, someone sane for once. Someone who did have the slightest bit of passion left in his heart, someone who talked to me without being forced to. Someone who didn't seem _scared_.

And all I would ever think of was to _fuck_ him.

Seriously, that was wrong. Being the object of my desires had always been bad for the respective persons. And I didn't want this Chinese chef I barely knew to be one of them.

The first guy I ever wanted was that shy but intelligent kid from my class. His name was Toris and I was really fond of the way he would blush all the time or occasionally brush a lock of his long hair out of his face.

He'd said yes when I asked him to go and have some ice cream with me, he'd said yes when I invited him to my home, he'd said yes when I asked him to put on my sister's dress, he'd obliged when I ordered him to slowly take it off again and he hadn't complained when I made him bend down afterwards.

This lasted for about half a year. For most of this time, I did consider myself in love. It made me so happy to kiss him and he even kissed me back. I loved fondling his hair and his skin. I would like to say that I loved having sex with him as well, but in retrospect, I think what we had wasn't even sex, because most of the time, he didn't even get off.

After a few weeks I began to notice the darkening circles under his eyes, how he got thinner and thinner, how his hair didn't seem as glossy anymore and after a few weeks more I saw those little red cuts on his wrists. Of course I asked him what had happened, because everybody wants to know what happened to make their loved ones sad. He wouldn't answer my questions at first and when he did, he told me stories about his mother being very strict, the homework being too much, the weather being too cold. And every time he told me a story like this I would swear to him that I loved him and that I would one day be able to protect him from all the bad things in this world and we'd move to a sunny place and live in a little hut with wide sunflower fields around us. Just the two of us, wouldn't that be wonderful?

Little did I know back then that my dreams were nightmares to him. Of course I could have, should have known. Now I hate myself for ignoring reality for so long, believe me. But at that time, for a few months, I was the happiest boy in the world. Being with Toris meant escaping from my violent father, my crying and drinking mother, the broken heating, the poor nutrition, the Siberian desolateness.

However, one day, when I was talking about our future together again, he started crying. First I assumed it was from happiness, but when he just wouldn't stop and I kept asking what was up, he told me. He told me about him rather dying in the Siberian cold than living at a sunny place with me. He told me about him rather starving than eating the sweets I bought for him. He told me about him rather having no friends at all than being loved by me.

He tried to run, but I was faster. For once, he really did try to fight but I was stronger. I hit him, and I kicked him, and I choked him, probably just because I couldn't do all that to myself, for that was what I really wanted to do at that moment.

In the end, I let him go. His nose was bleeding, he had bruises everywhere and some strands of his hair had been ripped out. He was breathing heavily and he probably wouldn't have been able to utter a word even if he had wanted to.

But he didn't cry. It was me who afterwards spend the next week doing so. It was me who cried even more when my sister Natalja appeared in my bedroom soon after, telling me to take her instead and calling me a fag when I refused. She reappeared with a kitchen knife, threatening me. Telling me what a bad son I was. If even my father was able to fuck her whenever he pleased, why would I be too much of a pussy to do so?

Our older sister Katyusha intervened at that moment. I don't know what Natalja would have done to me otherwise. Or what I would have done to her. All I know for sure is that it would have been more violent than sexual, because - she was right - I _was_ too much of a fag for her.

Toris never told anybody. The same goes for my sisters and as there were no other persons who had known about Toris and me in the first place nobody in my environment ever knew I was gay. Of course, sooner or later I found my way into certain bars, certain parks, certain discos and of course I made certain acquaintances, especially when during my time as a conscript in the army. At least what I had with those guys deserved to be called sex. They never liked me and I never liked, let alone loved them. But we appreciated each other's bodies and for a long time, I thought this was enough.

I sighed and started shaving to do something remotely useful and when I was done, I thought about how I was going to kill time until I could go to work.

I went back into my bedroom, switched on the TV out of habit and started to dress.

I needed to distract myself, so I considered my options. Basically there were two of them: Vodka or the gym.

It's funny how I never met someone who really appreciated the taste of vodka and still met countless people that were addicted to it or at least drank it relatively often. The fondness they hold for that drink is not derived from anything one could taste, it originates from the feeling that stuff gives you. The bitterness when it touches your tongue, the burning in your throat and stomach when you swallow it and finally, the warmth spreading through your body.

I was so tempted to drink right now, so tempted to drown my despicable dirty thoughts in alcohol, but I thought better of it and went to the gym instead.

There was one of those 24/7 gyms only two blocks away from me and I was thankful for the short distance, as it was an icy cold November night and the snow kept falling.

I was greeted by the smell of sweat and by a grunt of the doorman. He nodded to me and shifted a bit in his army attire, before he turned his old and bloodshot eyes back onto the cheap magazine he was reading.

I was alone in the room. I listened to the quiet humming of the heating and the dulled noise of a TV nearby while I put my gym shoes on.

In my opinion, the effect of working out is comparable to that of vodka. Lifting weights is pain as well and it leaves your muscles burning, and sometimes, it even helps you forget your soul because of all the attention you are paying to your body.

Right now, it seemed a better method than drinking, because I had to compensate all the Chinese food somehow. Plus, turning up at work with the smell of alcohol around me might not exactly help me to get promoted once again.

I started warming up. Maybe, going to the gym hadn't been such a good idea after all. There were memories of mine clinging to the walls of these shabby rooms as well. Painful ones, ready to turn up whenever I didn't need them. Memories of Gilbert.

Being with Gilbert Beilschmidt was the closest I ever came to having a real boyfriend. He was the grandson to some Nazi soldier that had been detained in this city's penal camp and he was always incredibly proud of the fact that he had a family in Germany he would one day be able to return to. He wouldn't ever stop enthusing about some German cousin of his that had somehow promised to get him a job there one day.

That's what I liked Gilbert for. I liked him for the hope he seemed to have. It's funny how the only people that are actually able to deal with their lives in Siberia are those who have the biggest hopes of leaving it.

Of course I never believed him. Cousins are fast to promise anything to their desperate relatives. I couldn't see a reason for some German guy to take trouble because of a distant Russian relate he'd never met in person.

Back then, at this very gym, it had been the first time I really talked to him. I'd seen him before, in one of the aforementioned bars, so I already knew the way he swung. He had no objections to an affair, not because he was scared or something, but because he didn't care. He'd soon leave this place anyways, so why not have some fun while it lasts?

And fun we had. We'd get totally shit-faced and stagger across the streets, bawling indecent stuff. We'd pee on some homeless guys sleeping in dark corners, we'd go into Gil's studio apartment and fuck and be as noisy as we could, so that his arrogant neighbors and their little daughter would hear us for sure.

Or sometimes, we would just sit on some warm water pipes and smoke, and Gilbert would tell me about his great future and I would believe no word of what he said.

However, the next evening, we'd just go into the gym again, getting our mates there to think that we were nothing more than close but extremely straight drinking buddies. Honestly, you just don't go around telling people about your preference for boys. Not here, anyways.

Maybe, in the course of the two years we spent that way, I may have become a bit too fond of him. And one day, when we were just chilling on my couch and making out a bit, I found myself whispering "I love you" into his ear.

First, Gilbert looked at me surprised, than his look became angry and then he hit me, calling me a traitor to our friendship. I'd never seen him this angry before. He even had tears of hatred running down his cheeks when he got up and left my apartment for good. He never came back to the gym either.

He actually called to say sorry for what he'd said later on and told me that this whole "being gay" thing had just been a phase he'd gone through and that it had just been for the sake of our "friendship" that he had stayed this way for so long. He'd be moving to Germany soon anyways so I shouldn't bother and get myself someone else. And then he hung up.

I don't know what Gil is doing now, I can only guess that he probably still lives in that studio apartment, hoping for his mysterious cousin to get him out of it.

When Gilbert was gone, the thing I most missed was all that hope that radiated from him. Somehow I'd loved his stories about his awesome life in Germany; somehow I had started to imagine me living there with him, actually getting out of Siberia too.

So back in my old hopeless life, back to my decently paying but boring job, I never got myself someone else. All I got myself was an overweight cat. I didn't ever want to risk being hurt again, or more importantly, I didn't want to hurt anybody else again with my unwanted love.

I walked over to the barbells and I really felt like shit. I damn well knew that self-pity wouldn't help at all. Of course I could try and move, at least to another Russian city. But who knows if I'd get a job there. It's not that I'd had that much of an excellent education. You can't write "ability to scare the shit out of anybody" into your CV. And no matter where, I'd still be a fag, and I'd still have those sisters depending on my money.

The weights I chose got heavier and heavier and the pain finally succeeded in distracting me a bit. I concentrated on my breathing and felt how my brain became emptier and emptier. All I knew for sure was that I had to spare Yao at all costs. Preferably while still becoming his friend.

Easier said than done.

Author's note II: The Russian army is not an all-volunteer army. Many of their soldiers are conscripts, just in case you were wondering.

I think there are many versions of this whole "How Ivan became what he is now" thing. This is mine. Please let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 3

Author's note I: I changed something in chapter 1 and 2. The restaurant has a name now!^^ Its name is Lao Long which means old dragon. I hope the Chinese is correct, please correct me if you know better! (I know you are there, Chinese readers, I've seen the traffic stats!)

Thank you so much for the comments, the favs and the alerts! Every single one of them makes me happy!

**Chapter 3**

_December_

"You know", Yao said, while casually stirring some kind of vegetable soup (S 12, I believe), "actually the food here is worthless shit."

I didn't quite know what to say to that. Was he fishing for compliments? It was the only explanation for this behavior I could think of, as his food was the best I had ever eaten and in all those evenings I had spent at the Lao Long, I had never hesitated to tell him that, both by the means of words and actions.

But still. I prided myself on knowing that mysterious chef at least a little bit and demanding praise in such a dumb and obvious manner wouldn't have been his style at all.

So instead of answering, I decided to give him an innocent questioning look.

He sighed. "At least for you it is shit. The rest of the people here just get what they deserve. But that stuff really isn't worthy of you."

In a slightly aggressive movement, he poured the soup into a bowl and handed it to his grimly as ever looking brother who immediately set out to deliver it to a table.

Seriously, what was up with him today? Had the -24°C air outside done any harm on him?

"Look at the people here." Yao continued as soon as Hong was out of earshot and his eyes went small with the intense look he gave me. "Look at what they are doing. They are filling their stomachs. They are wildly combining whatever food they feel like and are washing it down with this horrible, horrible pseudo Chinese liquor we sell them. Just like starving wild animals, lacerating whatever they can get their claws on."

A moment of silence between us. This was the first time I ever saw that aura of energy leaving Yao, saw him standing completely still and now averting his gaze from me and looking out of the window and onto the snowy streets in an almost melancholy manner instead.

"Maybe hungry is just what they are." I said, after having swallowed the last fried noodle on my plate."How can you hold that against them?"

He gave a decent and hesitant nod. "You are right to some point. But it merely is their bodies that are hungry." The man answered with unexpected earnestness, not even trying to respond to the slight irony that might or might not have accompanied my answer. "Their souls on the other hand don't feel the hunger anymore. They are already dead. And if they are not, at least death is all they are longing for."

I hesitated. This was the truth, I knew it. I had had plenty of opportunities to witness the inward death of the people around here. But still. "How does that make them less worthy customers?"

"You know," Yao sighed "food is not only for the body. As long as you are not starving, it first and foremost is for the soul. And I – as a chef – I want to cook for souls who appreciate it and all I ever do is fabricating fatty mixtures of poor vegetables and cheap meat for those undead creatures. It's a shame!"

Somewhat demotivated, he took out another piece of meat from the fridge, threw it on his workplate and cut it with a facial expression that was something in between self-loathing and sympathy for the poor dead animal.

I had never been good at comforting others. So right now I found myself unable to properly cope with the sudden mood swing of this usually so collected and focused man.

"Come on" I tried to cheer him up, "your food makes me and my very lively belly happy every time I come here. I wouldn't come here every second evening and ruin my skinny form if this wasn't the case!"

But instead of smiling or anything like that he just snapped at me.

"That's the worst part! You are the only one of my regular customers that actually has a bit of soul left inside of him and you still eat that crap! I try my best to suggest the best combinations to you and to pick the best meat but still… argh! It makes me mad!"

Becoming aware of his raised voice he bit his lip and busied himself by covering the abused pieces of meat in some kind of breading and seasoning it.

I instinctively felt a need to hide my reddening face behind my scarf, but caught myself and slowly wiped my mouth with a napkin instead to cover up my confusion. Inwardly I just wanted to smile madly. Had this just been a compliment? Had the mysterious, attractive and intelligent Chinese chef paid me a compliment? But even if this was not the case, Yao obviously had wasted one or two thoughts on me, the uninteresting, strange and slightly chubby Ivan Braginsky.

It made my heart swell with pride, and at this moment, it was easy to overhear the inner voice that scolded me for thinking about the body of the man who was the first one to ever think about my all, I was too happy, too thrilled by this sudden development to care. Still, I tried my best to keep my answer reasonable.

"You overestimate me, Yao. I'm just a random guy from Siberia who gave up fighting long ago. I'm happy with the food the way it is, really. I have no idea what's up with you today, but you do not have to worry about me in any way, be assured."

Yao turned to me again, a resolute look in his face. "May I invite you?" he asked "To my home? I really want to show you what a dinner should be like."

He didn't avert his eyes and it took my brain a ridiculously long amount of time to fully comprehend what he had just said.

Wow.

"Yes, sure!" I blurted out and the chef smiled, for the first time this evening.

"How about next Wednesday evening?" he suggested, eying me expectantly. "On Wednesday the Lao Long is closed, so I have time."

I'd promised to visit Natalja on that day, but I was sure I could postpone it. To be honest, I'd postponed anything to be with Yao some more.

"Okay." I heard myself answering, maybe a tad too eager. "Just tell me where and when exactly. It would really be an honor!"

Again he smiled, wiped his hands and fetched a piece of paper and a pen from somewhere to scribble down his address on it.

"There's a little grocery store next to the entrance of the house. Just ring apartment nr 28. I hope the bell works this time…"

"Oh, okay." I said, as I couldn't think of anything more to say. If I had made any effort to put my current emotional stat into words I would probably have ended up squealing like a little girl, so it was best to keep my words to a minimum.

I paid for my meal and left not without smiling at Yao once again. I had not fully understood his reasons for inviting me, but it was his conclusion that counted. And what an amazing conclusion it was.

Author's note II: I know this chapter is short, sorry. But the next one will hopefully be up soon! (University is going to start again soon and fanfictions are just the right thing to justify my academic procrastination :D.)

… Reviews, anyone?


	5. Chapter 4

Author's note I:  I'm alive! [Even though university is doing its best to change that.]

Also, did I mention I love everybody who favs and reviews this? Because I do!

**Chapter 4**

"No… No, it's not…."

…

"Natalia believe it or not this is important for me. Office work is not only carried out in the office, sometimes I have to socialize!"

…

"Come on, how about another evening? Thursday? Friday? Anything, really…"

…

"Well then just swap your shift with one of the other girls, isn't that possible?"

…

"Oh just stop it, okay? Stop it! I'm going to hang up on you!"

..

"Yes, see you. Bye, Natalia!"

When I put the phone down I finally released the breath that I had been holding. The breath I somehow always was holding whenever I talked to my younger sister. I'd never been a timid being or anything but that girl always managed to scare me with her mixture of misanthropy and possessiveness.

Luckily, she had long stopped wanting to have sex with me, or at least she hadn't ever mentioned it again. Still, sometimes I just couldn't help but remember the enraged expression on her face, the violent words from her mouth and of course the sharp kitchen knife in her hand on that one day a long time ago.

Not that I didn't love her in some way. She was my sister and together we'd been through a lot. We'd put each other through a lot as well, but still. I wanted her best, I really did. I hated the thought of her working in that bar because the money she got for her occasional jobs as a translator didn't suffice. She'd probably even do worse things than work as a waitress if I didn't help her out every month.

She didn't have too many friends as well. As far as I knew, Katyusha and I were the only ones she really spent time with. Not that I was the one to talk here, of course. All of her shallow acquaintances, the other girls from the bar, the customers, the bouncers, they meant nothing to her. When she didn't have to work at the bar she was busy translating sappy English romance novels into Russian.

And when she didn't have any jobs in the translating business she read or talked to her cat. Or did her best to "take care" of me. Which I did my best to appreciate. I knew she meant well, after all.

But that was exactly why I had just lied to her. I just couldn't have told her the real reason why I didn't have time for her on Wednesday.

How was I going to tell her about Yao? If I had told her the truth, that I was maybe going to make friends with a nice man who ran an amazing Chinese restaurant the first thing she would have done was to go and visit said restaurant in order to inform the chef about my unholy preferences in lovers and tell him to leave me alone because he couldn't possibly be serious if he still wanted to be friends with a fag. (Which would probably be the truth, but that doesn't mean I wanted to be confronted with it anytime soon.)

So no. A business dinner it was for Natalya. The thought of lying still made me sad, but it wasn't as if she'd ever know.

A week later, when I was finally on my way to Chinatown, the cold had turned the air as gray as the concrete buildings. Some people were hurriedly making their way past me, their faces hidden behind oversized scarves and fur hoods. I pulled my own cap down over my ears and focused on reading the street names and house numbers.

All my way, I had been riding an emotional roller coaster. One second, I felt like loitering a bit in order to postpone the moment when I would finally realize that I had imagined everything that had happened between the Chinese chef and me in the course of the last months.

The next second, I felt like running. Running to Yao's apartment as fast as possible, because for the first time in years there would actually be someone there waiting for me. Not because he felt compelled to do so out of job- or family-related reasons, but simply because he obviously enjoyed my company.

My boiling blood kept rushing through my veins whilst my fear and insecurity sent cold shivers down my spine. This difference in temperature within me was slowly driving me crazy.

I held the little scrap of paper he had written his address on in my hand like a talisman. Hidden in my pocket my hand was caressing it, as it was the only proof I had for the actual existence of this invitation. Whenever my fingers ran over its now cracked surface I involuntarily sped up.

Soon I perceived the grocery shop Yao had been talking about. They had – of course – specialized on Asian products and I could see some more Chinese lanterns behind the dusty shop windows. There were all kinds of noodles, dips and spices on display, all of them labeled with those letters that seemed like hieroglyphs to me. And – as crazy and creepy and whatnot as it may sound – I felt at home when I saw this. Up until now I hadn't realized how this decoration style had grown on me, but now that I did a combination of happiness and shame crept up on me and refused to let go. It took me some more time in my confused emotional state but then I had finally found the entrance to Yao's building, rang the bell that was labeled with a yellowed "28" and had answered to Yao's "Wei?" coming from the crackling speakers with a "Hey, it's me, Ivan."

The door opened with a buzz and soon I found myself in a big staircase. The orange paint was coming off the wall but from somewhere I heard someone play the violin on an amazingly high level and I found myself fascinated by the mixture of cigarettes and spices the house smelt like.

I could get used to this, I thought, and inwardly smacked myself for it.

Yao was leaning against the doorframe and smiling when I reached his flat.

"Welcome!" he said, "It makes me happy to see that you have not turned into an ice sculpture on your way here!"

"Naah, not me." I responded, too nervous to think of a witty reply.

"Well then" Yao made an inviting gesture. "Come in, it's too cold in the hallway."

Entering Yao's flat was something I experienced in some sort of slow motion. Everything in here seemed to me like a direct representation of his character, of his soul. First, there was that wave of warmth washing over me when I got out of the drafty hallway and into the sphere of the flat's heating. And then, there was Yao, smiling at me and shaking my hand, and immediately there was warmth boiling up inside of me too, radiating from somewhere inside my chest and filling every fiber of my body with happiness and excitement. And for once, I didn't hate myself for that. It had been his smile that had made me feel that way; it's not that he had offered me a lap dance, kissed me or even done anything that might have qualified as 'flirting'.

He had smiled, smiled, smiled…

Funnily enough, Yao's flat resembled the Lao Long in quite some way. Colorful wallpapers were covered in countless pictures in elaborate frames. There was a shelf full of figurines, probably representing mythological Chinese creatures and there were pieces of furniture lavishly decorated with embellishments of any sort.

And yet, it seemed all so much more personal than in the restaurant. The pictures on these walls were no kitschy illustrations but photographs, probably of his family or friends. I recognized Hong on one of them, looking grim as ever. And most of all, things didn't seem as cheap as in the Lao Long. The figurines actually seemed valuable, and the chest and closet with their mystic patterns carved into and painted onto them… I was far from a connoisseur when it came to rare pieces of furniture, but those certainly were something worth taking good care of.

The apartment wasn't big and most space in the living room Yao had let me into after he had taken my jacket (touched me, touched me, touched me…) was taken up by a huge table.

"What a nice flat you have" I stated, not out of politeness, just because it was nothing but the truth. "This furniture, I've never seen something like this in reality. I thought this only existed in museums."

"Well, it's certainly something I had a hard time getting my hands on." Yao chuckled softly. "You know, they don't bother to send pieces like this out into the tundra. But Hong co-administrates some kind of online shop when he's not in the Lao Long, so he had the contacts…"

"Does he live here with you?"

"No, no, he doesn't. Lives on the other end of town with that white haired lover of his… None of my family members are here anymore." For a short moment, a dark shadow of sadness crossed his face, only to be gone the next second to enable said face to display energetic eagerness. "But _you_ are here right now, so let me do my best to make your stay here worthwhile. I have to finish something in the kitchen, please take a seat. Sorry for making you wait. Do you want some tea in the meantime?"

"Yes, please." I said while awkwardly sitting down at the table. This room was so different from all flats I had ever seen in my life, and even though I'd _known_ Yao to be unlike every other person that had ever bothered talking to me, this fact only now completely unfolded to my mind.

And all of a sudden it made me feel incredibly helpless. He had seemed to genuinely like me until now, but this was his territory. The territory of Yao Wang the person, not of Yao Wang the chef. I knew how to keep Russians entertained for a while, how to make them fear me, how to make them accept, if not really like, me. But I was at a loss at how to properly treat this guy. Whilst a neat porcelain cup of tea was placed in front of me, I tried to recall everything I had ever heard about Chinese etiquette. Which wasn't too much: Don't mention the number 4, always touch business cards with both hands, and do not give those people clocks as presents…

My head started to spin with regained panic and confused pieces of information I now wished I had done any research about.

"Something the matter?" Yao interrupted my thoughts.

"No, not at all." I said, as close to flushing bright red as I had ever been in my whole life. "I just have these doubts whether I'm worthy your kindness at all."

To this, the man smiled his mysterious Asian smile. "You know what?" he said "This is no kindness at all."

A short glint in his brown eyes, a short widening of mine.

"I told you I wanted someone to find out what I'm really capable of when it comes to creating food. And I picked you to be my guinea pig here, so don't worry, I'm likely to have even more fun with this than you."

With an almost predatory grin he left for the kitchen again and made me just sit there and finally understand what it was that fascinated me with him so deeply:

_Yao was stronger than me._

In every aspect. So much stronger, and I hadn't even noticed. Even if I tried, I would never have been able to hurt him.

I was simply not possible for me to force myself on him, because all this time all I did was acting as he wanted me to.

He wanted someone to appreciate his cooking for all it was worth? Fine, I was going to be that person. He could make me whatever he wanted and I would make no resistance. For the first time in my life, I was the one to act as I was told, I was the one to adapt. And most of all, it meant that I wouldn't get a chance to act perverted towards him, because he simply wouldn't let me.

It was all so perfect, and it all made so much sense that afternoon in this little apartment in some Chinatown somewhere in Siberia, and when Yao reappeared with beer, various fried seafood, some spring roll- like rolls filled with hot flavored mushrooms, tofu pieces covered in a fruity sauce, all kinds of noodles and rice, all perfectly arranged on countless plates, I was left with nothing left to wish for.

Author's notes II: Oh wow, how did this chapter take me so long to write? I have no idea -.- . It's probably full of all sorts of grammar and punctuation mistakes. And probably it doesn't make sense sometimes. Argh. Feel free to point whatever I might have done wrong out to me, it is much appreaciated.

Btw, did you see the HongIce in there? I sure did!^^

And now I'm off to a pub watching the Champions League and quietly eating my dinner while everybody around me is going to go crazy. :D

… reviews?


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